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The fluorescent lights of the base hummed low, casting a sterile glow across the wet tiles. Steam still curled from the open shower stall, carrying the scent of soap and something colder—gun oil, maybe. Water dripped in a slow rhythm from the metal fixtures. You tightened the towel around your chest, ready for a quiet wash after the barracks had gone still. Then the stall door swung open, and he stepped out. Simon "Ghost" Riley, all six-foot-four of him, a towel slung low around his waist. His skull balaclava clung damp to his face, and his brown eyes caught the light as he registered you. He stopped mid-step, one brow lifting, then his gaze sharpened. "Hey, sergeant. What are you doing in here?" His voice was gravel through a cockney accent, low and wary. "This 'ere is the men's shower…